the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
It is not so easy to underestimate Woolf, although most size him up for the wrong reasons.
He is, indeed, a Large Scary Brute—standing at an easy 17 hands high, roped with muscle, heavy head slung from a thick neck—but his power did not rest in brute force. While he could enter into the fighting arena if he wanted, he had never felt the urge. It was messy, chaotic—nearly feral. What was the point in causing so much destruction? Woolf was not a wrecking ball; he was a scalpel. He approached life with the delicacy of one much more obviously refined, his own interests more cerebral than physical.
As such, he knew that others were not often what they seemed.
(After all, Bright was more unassuming than he but as sharp and dangerous as a blade.)
So he didn’t cast her off as weak. He didn’t categorize her at all, not yet. Instead he watched her with his calm eyes, studiously taking in whatever details that he could. “I live here,” he answered casually, glancing around to the trees that loomed above them, their shapes opposing and twisted in the shadows. “I have never found somewhere more convenient.” Where you slept was such a menial matter, after all.
“What about you, Sunday? Why venture here when so many have chosen to go home?”
Woolf
